Text kept running along the bottom of the cantina’s video screens. “Han Solo, retired Republic General, dead. Galactic Civil War hero killed in action during raid on First Order weapons facility. General Solo survived by…”

“Dammit!” he said, and slammed his fist down on the bar.

Every head in the cantina that could turn turned his way. Eyestalks and antennae likewise.

He tossed a few credits on the bar and left.

“That miserable son of a bitch,” he said to himself standing in the street outside.

He reviewed his plan for vengeance as he headed for the landing field. It was simple. Nab Skywalker, park him on Ahch To. Wait for Solo to come looking for him. Blast Solo upon arrival, then Skywalker. Or, should any of the other likely suspects—the princess, Solo’s misfit kid—show up first, nab them and keep waiting until Solo showed up on the route to Ahch To, and blast him. Blast the rest later.

But no. Solo went and got himself killed. Bloody Corellians, their damnable heroics, and their poor survival skills.

He was standing before Slave I.

Now what?

Cut his losses. Go kill Skywalker and be done with it.

Aboard the ship, he strapped in, and lit the sublights.

Ahch To’s coordinates were stored in the Navicomputer. Fett called them up. Clear of the atmosphere, he hauled back on the hyperdrive throttles, and slipped into the mottled tube of hyperspace.

Out the other end he exited in the Ahch To system.

He made straight for the island.

Fett left Slave I on the island’s one flat spot.

Skywalker would know he was coming; he checked his weapons, his armor systems, one last time before going down the ramp.

Feet on the ground, he fired his pack and boosted himself up toward the only heat signature showing on his scanner.

Solid landing, baton up, blaster ready. No visual. Fett dropped to one knee and fired the rocket from his pack at the warm rock pile. It penetrated, then exploded.

Stone and dust rained down on him.

But something didn’t feel right.

“Rey! Don’t!” Skywalker’s voice. But who—

Fett spun around, to the sound of a lightsaber hissing to life.

“Who the hell are—“

**********

And that's a wrap. Final chapter, 374 words. In conclusion, if there's anything to take away from this story--if it has any point, other than as an exercise in writing, in the author's intention, then it is this: You can't escape your destiny. At least in fictional galaxies far, far away. Thanks for your attention. Questions and comments welcome, of course.